


Seeking Shelter

by givesamapuppy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Minor Injuries, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay, Smut, Soulless Sam Winchester, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-15 16:43:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7230478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/givesamapuppy/pseuds/givesamapuppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during the time Sam was soulless before teaming back up with Dean. Sam shows up at your house during a storm. He later gets your help on a case, unbeknownst to you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seeking Shelter

You sit on the hood of your car, leaning back against the windshield and watching the storm clouds as they roll over the hills in the distance, growing darker and fatter as they lumber lazily towards the large open field where your house sits. Your house is what polite people would probably call “quaint” or “charming” when what they really mean is “you poor thing, don’t you get lonely out here all by yourself?” or “couldn’t you at least put some fresh paint on it?” You call it a lousy run-down old shack, but that’s just you.  

The air is heavy, warm and damp in that way that makes everything eerily quiet when a thunderstorm is approaching, and all you can hear is that low rumble every once in a while that you don’t so much hear as feel, deep in your bones.

A car that has been approaching for a while down the straight, narrow road in front of your house slows down and grinds to a stop just in front of where your driveway would be, if you hadn’t let weeds and grass grow up and cover the gravel. You’ve been watching as it approaches, tracking the pale yellow headlights, but cars drive by all the time. No one ever up and decides to stop right in front of your house. That’s what you like most about it. It’s one of those places you’d see, staring out the window on a long road trip, and wonder who lives there, but you’d only catch a glimpse as you drove past.

You keep your eyes glued on the windshield and cross your arms across your chest. You hope the driver will see you glaring and change their mind, but no dice. A man steps out, thumping the door behind him and striding towards you in a manner that isn’t nearly shy enough. If you’re going to walk up to a stranger’s house on the side of the road, you ought to at least be a little shy about it.

“Sorry to bother you,” the man says, though he doesn’t seem particularly sorry, “but I’ve got a good twenty miles to go on this road and my car’s acting up. I’ve got to get under the hood but it looks like it’s going to rain—do you think I could stop here, just until the storm passes?”

You look over at the storm clouds, closer now, and then back at the man. “It’s not raining yet.”

The man looks surprised, like he isn’t too used to women not welcoming him into their homes with open arms. It isn’t that you haven’t noticed his good looks. Oh no, it’s hard to miss how his mile-long legs unfolded as he got out of his car, or the breadth of his shoulders as he adjusts his jacket. Add on the long hair and he’s just your type. It’s just that you aren’t in the habit of admitting strangers into your home, storm or not. Instead of backing down, the man stays planted where he is and looks up and down the road. “You really are in the middle of nowhere here, aren’t you?” he says. “No one for miles.”

“That’s a sketchy thing to say to someone when you’re asking to be let into their house.”

The man laughs, which strikes you as the wrong reaction. He’s standing there with his hands on his narrow hips and his eyebrows raised expectantly, and there’s something like a predatory glint in his eyes that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up a bit. Somehow it feels like a challenge, so you let out a sigh and slide off the hood of your car, tossing a curt “fine” back at the man as you walk into your house, letting the screen door smack shut behind you.

 

“Huh. It’s small,” the man observes, standing in the entrance to your living room. His eyes are scanning the room freely, lingering for a moment on each crack in the wall or scuff on the warped hardwood floor in a way that makes you oddly self-conscious, even though you decided long ago that you like the feel of neglected disarray that pervades the whole place.

“I’m Sam, by the way,” the man says.

“(Y/N).”

“You must feel pretty isolated out here,” Sam remarks, deciding, apparently, that the thing to do after inviting yourself into someone’s home is to make faces at their furniture and pry into their feelings.

“No, not really,” you reply. You want to say that maybe that’s the point; that generally people who live in creaky old shacks on the side of the highway want to be left alone, and not to have their evenings interrupted by tall men in flannels who drive douchey cars, but you think how appalled your mother would be if she saw you being that rude and you bite your tongue.

“What brings you out here in the middle of nowhere?” you ask instead.

“I’m working a case, few miles down the road.” He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a badge. FBI. Huh. You wouldn’t have pegged him for a fed, but the badge looks legit. You’ve heard about the trouble down at the Bradfords’ farm; all sorts of weird shit has been going down. They called their priest—that’s usually the first line of response for people around here—but he reportedly set one foot in there and then high-tailed it to some monastery two states over. So yeah, pretty weird.

“The Bradfords? I wouldn’t think the FBI would be interested in something like that.”

Sam shrugs. “They send me on the weird cases,” he says, punctuated with a grin. _Jesus_. You may have underestimated his attractiveness from a distance. Now that he’s right in front of you, you can see the fine lines of his face, bone structure you recognize from the marble sculptures in your old Greek art textbooks. You clear your throat. It won’t kill you to be a good hostess for a couple hours, right?

“Well, sit down wherever. Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Do you have whiskey?”

“That kind of Monday, huh?”

“Aren’t they all?”

 

You hear your old couch creak behind you when Sam sits down as you pour out two glasses in the kitchen. “So, what do you guys think is going on over at the Bradfords’? Drugs? Gas leak? Something in the water?”

“Yeah, something like that.” He chuckles to himself a little, for some reason.

Sam looks more than a little out of place there in your living room. Your couch is too low, making his knees stick up in the air, and the glass of whiskey you gave him looks oddly small in his hand. He doesn’t seem interested in breaking the awkward silence that has drawn out between you, making way for the sound of rumbling thunder from outside. In fact, he doesn’t seem interested in minimizing awkwardness at all, since he’s been maintaining eye contact with you for an uncomfortably long amount of time. You shift your weight from one foot to another, cringing a little when the floorboards screech unexpectedly, piercing through the silence. This really isn’t how you need to be spending your afternoon. Not that you necessarily had any other plans, but still, awkward social encounters with hot guys are never on the top of your to do list.

“Well, uh, it must be interesting working for the FBI, right?”

He smirks, still staring at you. This guy sure likes to smirk. Not that it’s exactly an unattractive expression on him. Actually, it’s quite the opposite.

“We can’t small talk our way through this whole storm.”

“Okay fine, what do you suggest we do?”

There’s a glint in his eyes that probably should make you uneasy, but doesn’t, not quite. “I can think of a few things.”

You feel heat rise in your cheeks and your heart revs up a notch. You aren’t sure if he’s suggesting what you think he is, but hell if the look on his face isn’t suggestive. Instead of responding, you examine your feet and pull at a loose thread on your sweater.

“You could start by sitting down,” he suggests, gesturing to the couch beside him.

You sit with a huff, looking at him skeptically. “Okay, now what?”

He shrugs. “I thought of the last thing, it’s your turn.”        

You roll your eyes and drum your fingers on your knee. “Fine. You play cards?”

He raises an eyebrow at you—god, he has nice eyebrows for a guy—and scoffs a little like he can’t believe you’re asking. You take that as a yes and reach to grab the deck of cards from the table on the other side of the couch, getting up on your knees and stretching over Sam to do so. You notice him tense up a bit as you lean across his lap and smile to yourself, pleased to get a reaction from your impassive guest.

“How ‘bout gin rummy?”

 

You fall into an easy rhythm, interrupted every now and again by a particularly sharp clap of thunder or the sound of your house shuddering under the barrage of wind. Sam seems at ease, leaning back against the couch, his legs sprawled out and his movements loose and uncalculated. He keeps looking at you, glancing up from behind his cards with a smile in the narrowing of his eyes that feels like he has some secret he can’t wait to share with you. You notice he has pretty eyelashes, probably because you’re trying not to notice how much his gaze reminds you of the prowling tiger on the cover of last month’s National Geographic.

You aren’t sure what it is—the steady tick-tock of the dusty old grandfather clock, the rain pattering on your roof, Sam’s finger tapping rhythmically on the back of his cards—but you sink into a kind of daze, and the storm passes by before you know it.

“Hey, listen,” you say, the first voice to crack through the heavy air in at least an hour. “It’s not thundering anymore.”

You get up and walk to the window, drawing the curtains to inspect the sky. The clouds are higher now, and lighter grey, as if they’ve gotten out all their frustrations and are now backing off, embarrassed by their outburst.  “It’s still drizzling a little, but it looks like the worst is over.”

“Shame.” Sam speaks from directly behind you, his voice lower than it was earlier, huskier. A gasp escapes you; you didn’t hear him get up and you sure weren’t expecting his broad chest to be just barely brushing up against your back.

You aren’t sure you trust him, but on the other hand you aren’t sure you really care. You turn in what little room you have, tilting your head up so you’re looking at Sam’s face instead of directly into his chest – not that the latter isn’t appealing. He’s towering over you, and it strikes you how much power is tethered in his muscular frame. His jaw is set, sharp and straight, and his eyes seem to be asking you if you dare. You’re reminded again of marble, both in its beauty and coldness. After a few moments of tense stillness, you conclude that he’s going to wait for you to make the first move, and that he has the mechanical self-control to wait forever. Forever isn’t going to work for you, so you stretch up on your toes to get your lips as close as you can to his – which it turns out isn’t nearly close enough – and you’re left there, hovering in the air, his mouth just a couple tantalizing inches from yours.

Sam stays frozen, letting you dangle, except to pick up a hand and run the backs of his fingers down your arm, making you shudder. You’re just about to lose balance when he finally slides his hand around your waist to the small of your back, pulls you flush against him, and lowers his head the rest of the way to kiss you. At the first touch of his lips, you know you’re done for. _Holy shit._ You draw in a sharp breath through your nose and kiss him back, bringing one hand up to his shoulder and weaving the other in the long ends of his hair on the back of his neck. You bite his bottom lip lightly and he actually _growls_ , his free hand covering the back of your head before he backs you into the wall and shoves his knee in between your thighs. You grind down on him instinctively, the friction of the seam of your jeans on your clit making your hand on Sam’s shoulder grip tightly at his shirt.

He works his lips up and down your neck, nipping at your pulse point and the underside of your jaw, laving at your collar bone, searching for the spot that pulls the sweetest noises out of you—and when he finds it, doubling down his efforts mercilessly.

You yelp, unaware of how tightly you were wound until his lips start to undo you, and tug his hair roughly.

Sam makes a low noise that rumbles through his chest pressed tight against you. “Bedroom?”

You don’t even hesitate. “Up the stairs and to the left.”

He pulls back just enough to get an arm under your ass and lift you up, his other hand staying wrapped in your hair and keeping your mouth locked on his. You wrap your legs around his waist as he starts walking, though the ease with which he carries you tells you that isn’t really necessary. The tiny corner of your brain that is still capable of conscious thought takes a moment to be impressed and a bit intimidated that he’s carrying you with one arm.

Once you’re upstairs, Sam untangles his hand from your hair to grapple blindly for the doorknob and swing open the door to your room, giving you the opportunity to pull away and catch your breath, your head spinning from a combination of lust and lack of oxygen.

Before you have fully recovered, Sam is climbing onto your bed, still holding you against his chest, then lowering you both down. He pulls back to look into your eyes, holding himself on his elbows so the whole length of his body is pressing yours solidly into the mattress without crushing you. You feel his clothed erection pressing into your thigh and resist the urge to buck your hips. His lips look thoroughly kissed as he pants above you, his hair tousled now with pieces falling forwards, tickling your cheeks.

“Tell me what you want.” His eyes are piercing, searching.

You lick your lips. “I want you to fuck me, clearly.”

His face breaks into a grin, one that is beautiful but sharp around the edges. “We’ll get to that.”

 

Sam pulls away from you to shed his flannel and the v-neck underneath, giving you an excellent view of the flexing and pulling of his muscles as he yanks it over his head. He drops back on top of you and shifts his weight onto one forearm, running his other hand over your breast and down your ribs to the hem of your shirt where it has bunched up, grabbing it and pulling it over your head with your help. He mouths at your breast through the thin lace of your bra while his fingers clench and unclench on your side before moving around your back to unclasp and slide the garment off. He closes his mouth over your now uncovered nipple, flicking at it with his tongue before pulling back to breathe a cold breath on the wet skin. His hand moves down to unbutton your jeans and slides inside, pushing under the elastic of your panties to stroke at your soaking pussy.

“You’re so wet. I bet you’ve been imagining this since I first stepped in here.”

He isn’t entirely wrong. You squirm, trying to get him to pick up the pace, but he just smiles up at you from his position in between your breasts and lifts himself up again to hover over your face. With the hand not supporting his weight, he teases your clit, watching your response with a hungry curiosity. Both your hands fly up to grab his shoulders at the shock of pleasure, fingertips digging in to the thick muscle there. He sinks one long finger into you, curling it and rubbing around your inner walls until you jump and let out a breathless yelp when he finds your sweet spot. He adds a second finger, stroking and stretching and pumping until you’re moaning nonstop. You lean up to lick at the salty skin of his throat, biting and sucking at the base of his neck, mostly because his skin is enticingly flushed and sweaty, but partly to escape from the overwhelming intensity of his unwavering gaze.

Heat rises up from deep in your belly as he begins circling your clit with his thumb while his fingers work inside you. You moan into his shoulder, lost in the feeling of his skin on you, in you, everywhere you can sense.

“Fuck, Sam, I’m close,” you pant out.

Sam uses his free hand to grab your shoulder and push you back on the bed.

“I want to see you,” he growls. It’s not a request, and you wouldn’t dream of denying him.

His thumb begins rubbing at your clit purposefully while his two fingers stroke vigorously inside you, and the combined sensation pushes you off the edge. Actually, more like shoves. You come with an unrestrained shout of Sam’s name, clenching around his fingers while he continues to pump them lazily. You’ve never been particularly loud during sex. Evidently Sam is an exception.

In your post-orgasmic haze you only half register Sam scooting down your body and pulling off your jeans and underwear. You are jerked out of your reverie, however, when Sam’s tongue starts lapping at your over-sensitive cunt.

“What are you— _Oh_ ”

He thrusts his tongue inside you where his fingers just spread you open moments before, and it’s too much, too good, but somehow your hand that flies down and tangles in his hair to pull him away ends up pulling him closer instead. You feel him smile against you before he drags his tongue wide and flat from your entrance to your clit.

Your nerves are on fire, already so sensitive from your orgasm with no chance to recover. You squirm, mindlessly trying to get away from the needle-sharp pleasure, and Sam grunts and lays his forearms over your thighs, pushing them further apart and down on the bed. His hands grab your hips, fingers spanning from the crease of your thighs to the soft flesh of your ass, and he holds you still as he increases the pressure of his tongue, the friction driving you mad. He moves his attention to your swollen clit and sets an unforgiving pace, alternating between flicking with the tip of his tongue and rubbing with it flat and rough against the sensitive nub.

Within moments you feel another orgasm rising, each swipe of his wet, warm tongue driving you closer as your breathing speeds. Sam’s grip on your hips restricts any movement, but you can’t help trying, flexing and shaking against him. You toss your head to the side and grip the sheets and Sam’s hair with white knuckles, lips pressed together in a vain attempt to stifle the moans bubbling up in your throat. Then, just as you are beginning to shake apart, Sam backs off, his tongue stopping its attack to make circles around your clit, slow and light and not quite enough to finish you off.

You give a low whine in protest and open your eyes to see Sam crouched between your legs with a positively gloating look on his face. This is a challenge to him, you realize—to take you apart piece by piece like some sort of reverse jigsaw puzzle, to figure out how far he can stretch the rubber band before it snaps. It’s a bit frightening, yes, to be laid bare for this man with steely eyes, but the adrenaline only serves to heighten the sensations he’s giving you.

Sam continues to tease you, giving you soft little licks interspersed with more pressure to keep you right on the edge until your whole body is buzzing and you’re whimpering helplessly. You would be embarrassed by the noises you’re making if you had the energy to feel anything other than _want, need, please_. He doesn’t let up for what feels like forever, until you are past the point of coherent thought or deliberate action, just trembling on the bed with little sense of the passage of time. Finally, it seems Sam decides he’s met his goal of dismantling you completely and begins working you towards your release. Even this, though, he does purposefully and slowly, refusing to give you the immediate relief you so desperately crave but instead increasing his speed and pressure incrementally so that the pleasure rolls over you in waves, each one stronger than the last.

When you come at last it isn’t like some kind of explosion; it’s more like what you imagine being electrocuted would feel like if being electrocuted felt really fucking good. It’s long and drawn out and you think you hear yourself making some kind of wrecked, hoarse noise. You shudder and dig your fingernails into Sam’s scalp, making him moan against you.

After a second to catch your breath, you tug Sam up feebly, and this time he follows. You’re utterly fucked out. Exhausted. But somehow you still want him inside you. It might kill you, but damned if that isn’t a good way to go. Sam starts crawling up your body and the rough scrape of denim against your bare thighs brings it to your attention that after all this his jeans are still on. How the hell he’s gone this long with what appears to be a massive erection without so much as rutting against the bed while he ate you out you have no clue.

He kisses you surprisingly gently, letting you suck your juices off his tongue while he maneuvers to remove his jeans and boxers. There isn’t much of a sense of urgency, really—he’s hungry, all right, but you get the feeling he’s the type to savor his food.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding when you see his cock, angry red and leaking precum onto your belly.

“Condoms?” he asks, his voice totally blown out.

You gesture vaguely in the direction of the bedside table and he figures it out, leaning over to grab one and then ripping it open between his teeth before rolling it out over his length.

Sam positions himself between your legs and slides his cock along your folds a couple of times, slicking it up before sinking into you, sheathing himself fully on the first thrust. He stills once he’s inside you, just nipping at your jaw and throat until you move a hand to grip his muscular thigh and urge him to move. His thrusts are even and calculated to hit your sweet spot, and your moans are muffled as he dips his tongue in and out of your mouth with the same rhythm as he’s fucking you.

After a while, he begins rocking against you more shallowly, with his hips swiveling to grind his pelvis against yours at the end of each thrust, which provides knee-buckling friction on your overused clit. He breaks away from your mouth with a sloppy smack and hovers a breath away, panting into your open mouth, his lips occasionally brushing and catching on yours. His eyes glaze over as his hips falter in their rhythm before he squeezes his eyes shut, breaking his usual concentrated gaze, and clenches his jaw, making the muscle in his cheek twitch visibly and you gasp audibly from the thrill of seeing him lose just a bit of that mechanical control.

Sam comes silently, the muscles of his shoulders tensing under your hands and his abdomen going rigid over you. You didn’t think you’d be able to come again after what that fucker did to you with his mouth earlier, but you’re already so close when he comes that the feeling of his hot cum shooting into you sends you reeling into another orgasm.

After a moment of heavy panting, Sam pulls out of you, making you wince, and thumps down on what little room there is beside you on your narrow bed. He looks over at you with a cocky grin and a pleased squint of his eyes that melts some of their coldness and catches you off guard.

“Yeah, okay, wow. That was fanfuckingtastic. No need to get all cocky about it now though.”

He laughs, then sighs contentedly. “I guess I’d better get to work on my car. Before it starts raining again. You need anything?”

“Uh, no. I’m good.” You didn’t exactly expect him to stay and cuddle anyway.

 

Sam leaves as the sun is just beginning to peek through the clouds and drives off through the low mist left by the rain evaporating on the hot pavement. It’s an awkward goodbye—for some reason you feel like you’re supposed to stand out on the porch and wave, like maybe that’s what normal people do when they have company, but clearly neither of you are under the illusion of normalcy, so you just watch through the window.

 

You get a call from Sam the next morning. When you pick up the phone and hear his voice you nearly drop it again. He got your number before he left, but as far as you’re concerned that was just a formality; you don’t actually think he’d ever call you.

“Sam?”

“Hey, can you do me a favor?”

“Uh, sure, what’s up?”

“Just come over to the Bradfords’ farm. I’ll explain when you get here.”

It’s a calmer day than the day before, weather-wise. Cooler, with a low cloud cover and an unpleasant mist in the air. You wonder, as you often do, why you decided to live here instead of some place with sunny beaches and tan lifeguards. Then again, people like Sam don’t stop by your house because of a storm and give you a night you’ll never forget in places like that.

You pull up the Bradfords’ driveway, tires crunching on the gravel, and you don't bother to do a semi-decent parking job before you throw the car into park and stumble your way out the door in your hurry to find out what Sam wants from you. You gather yourself and look around, scanning the property for signs of Sam. He’s nowhere to be seen, nor is his car.

“Sam?” you call, your voice echoing. You give one last look around and walk up to the front door of the porticoed plantation style house, concluding he must be waiting inside.

 _Knock, knock_. There’s no answer. You sigh, starting to get annoyed. Where the hell is he? And what exactly does he need out here that you can help with? You rap on the door harder.

“Hellooo, anybody home?” You try the doorknob, but it’s locked. Walking over to a window, you peer inside the living room. It’s dark, looks pretty uninhabited, actually. Maybe the Bradfords are staying with relatives or something while this weirdness gets sorted out.

You reach for your phone to call Sam and ask him where he’s hiding and what about this he thinks is funny, but you find your pocket empty—you must have left it in the car. With an annoyed huff you start marching back down the hillside, wondering if maybe this is some kind of weird prank, or if Sam is actually a charming sociopath who lured you here to kill you like on that Dateline program you fell asleep to the other night. Huh. Hopefully not that.

While you’re pulling open your car door, your eyes fall on the barn on the other side of the property. Maybe Sam’s in there and can’t hear you. You vaguely remember hearing that the problems the Bradfords have been having started out having something to do with their farm animals, like they were turning up dead, or disappearing, or something. So you slam your car door closed again and slosh through the muddy grass to the barn.

The barn door creaks when you pull it open and a strongly musty sent fills your nostrils. On first glance there’s no sign of Sam, but the barn is filled with farm equipment and dusty piles of who-knows-what kind of rusty twisted metal that makes the dark space into a kind of maze.

“Hey Sam, you in here?” You walk further inside, wishing you had a flashlight and silently telling yourself off for how fast your heart is beating.

A creaking sound breaks the muffled silence and you spin around, peering into the dark corner where the sound came from. A figure steps out from behind a tractor, and you watch just long enough to see that it’s most definitely not Sam before turning on your heel and sprinting towards the open door.

Before you get so much as five feet, the toe of your shoe catches on a nail sticking up from the floorboards—just your luck—and you trip, the loose hay covering the floor making it slippery and difficult to catch yourself. A hand grabs the back of your shirt just before you hit the ground, pulling you up and whipping you around to slam you against a support beam. You’re close enough now to see the face of your attacker even in the darkness. It’s a woman, about your height, with brown hair and a wild look in her eyes.

“What do you want?” you ask, trying to swallow down your panic. “Money? I don’t have anything on me but you can have whatever’s in my car.”

She just smiles and looks over her shoulder at the shadows shifting on the walls, figures coming out from their hiding places. You count four more people. So this is what has been causing the commotion out here? A family of psycho squatters? You try to think of something to scare them off, or at least buy you some time.

“I’m meeting someone here, he’ll be expecting me. He’s probably looking for me right now,” you lie. For all you know Sam never planned on being here at all.

The woman frowns. “The hunter?” Her voice contains a hint of concern, and you grab ahold of it like a loose thread.

A hunter? Yeah, sure, whatever. “If you let me go, I won’t tell him anything. You’ll have a chance to get out before he finds you.”

One of the figures behind her speaks up. “Come on, Joan, there’s five of us. If he’s really here, we can take him.”

The woman pauses for a moment, and you can see the gears turning. Your stomach drops when she meet your eyes again and smiles.

“He’s right. Then we’ll have two meals.”

She bares her teeth in a snarl, revealing sharp, oversized canines and pointed front teeth, like some kind of freak genetic hybrid that put a carnivore’s teeth in a human’s mouth.

Your scream is drowned out by the sound of a gunshot that rings out just as the thing is lunging for your neck. She crumples to the ground, blood from a bullet hole through her heart soaking into the hay. In the doorway stands Sam, gun in hand, silhouetted by the light like some cheesy action hero. The ensuing fight is a blur, you can never remember afterwards exactly what happened or how long the scuffle lasted; you’re too busy trying to remember how to breathe. You do see the other…creatures, whatever they are, running at Sam, and a series of punches and slashes with a knife he pulls out from his jacket. He takes them down one by one, and as he’s pulling his blade out of the heart of the third, the remaining one—a thin, scrappy-looking male—breaks off a piece of rusty metal from an old plow and is raising it up over his head.

You find your voice just in time to yell “Watch out!” and Sam swings around to catch the weapon on its downward swing towards his head, yanking it out of the guy’s hand and sinking his knife into his chest.

It turns out the shock has worn off enough for you to speak, because a moment later you find yourself blurting out, “What the hell _were_ those?”

“Werewolves.” Sam says it like you would say ‘peanut butter and jelly sandwich.’

“…Werewolves. Werewolves?”

“Yeah.”

Sam cleans the blood off of his knife with the corner of his shirt while you think it over. He knew they were there. He asked you to come here. He was nowhere to be seen when you arrived. “Wait. Did – did you use me as _bait_?!”

He at least has the decency to look slightly uncomfortable. “The pack had my scent; they wouldn’t get anywhere near me. I had to coax them out somehow.”

“So you decided to feed me to them?”

“I wasn’t going to let you get hurt.”

“But you were willing to risk it.”

There’s a heavy pause. “…Sorry,” he offers.

“You don’t look sorry,” you snap.

Sam sighs heavily and runs a hand through his hair. “Look, the werewolves had to get ganked. They were killing people. I did what I had to.”

His expression is open and honest, without regret but also without any ill will. You realize at that moment the complete lack of malice, the simple matter-of-factness of his actions, and some of your indignant anger fades. Sam’s covered in cuts and bruises and moving his right arm gingerly, and you feel a reluctant twinge of sympathy, despite everything.

“Um, I kind of hate to ask, but do you think you could help me with a couple of these cuts, I’m not sure I can reach all of them.”

Part of you wants to yell at him for asking you to help him after he just threw you to the wolves—literally—but you don’t. You can’t believe you’re doing this. The guy has to have something seriously wrong upstairs, but those damn _puppy eyes_.

“Alright, fine, I’ve got a first aid kit in my trunk. Follow me.”

 

You pull the last stitch through the gash in Sam’s shoulder, tongue sticking out the corner of your mouth in concentration. He’s sitting in the open trunk of your car, shirtless, watching you patch him up.

“Don’t you know it’s not polite to stare?” you chide, not taking your eyes off your work.

He smiles up at you, and its sudden unguardedness makes your heart skip a beat. Your face is close to his, and you can feel his warm breath on your cheek.

“Okay, well, we’re done.”

Sam doesn’t move, instead shifting his gaze down to your lips. Figuring that at this point it really can’t hurt, you lean in and press your lips to his, moving them slowly and purposefully, brushing your thumb over his cheekbone and running the tips of your fingers through his hair before pulling back. His mouth chases after yours a little and you can’t help but smile.

“Well, Sam, you should probably head out. Don’t you have to make a report to send back to the FBI or something?”

He gives you a funny look and doesn’t answer. After shrugging on his shirts, Sam gets up and holds out his hand, which you shake. “Thanks for everything,” he says, and he really does seem sincere.

You stand and watch as he drives off, waving this time because you don’t care if you look stupid. This has certainly been the weirdest 24 hours of your life, and probably the most memorable too. Now there’s nothing left to do but go home, and hope that after a few days the uneasy feeling in your stomach will go away, you’ll forget what you’ve seen, and things will return to normal. You can still see the glow of Sam’s rear lights driving away down the straight and narrow road, and against your better judgement, you find yourself hoping that someday he might show up at your door again.


End file.
